After the End
by guineapiggie
Summary: "Jack Bass barges into the church less than a minute before the beginning of the ceremony, impeccably dressed as always and so unsteady on his feet she has half a mind of pushing past Serena to walk him to his place just like she did with Chuck at Bart's funeral." [Slight canon-divergence; major character death; rated for dark and adult themes]


**After the End**

 **DISCLAIMER:** I hold no rights whatsoever to the show, characters or brands used or referenced, everything is with their rightful owners.

 ***A/N*** Lots of thanks as ever to LetMeWalkTheEarthWithYou, who not only was the first to read this but also was the one to alert me to this pairing in the first place :)

* * *

Blair Waldorf-Bass has never doubted her private possessions will one day go to a museum, and sometimes she wonders how they'd organise the exhibit. Maybe by the people those things connect her with… and with some distant feeling of shame, she pictures a small room off the side – there would be something from that New Year's party, a gorgeous cocktail dress with a shimmering bodice (and maybe even the card that came with it… or did she burn it?), and three more objects, each more commonplace than the next, and yet –

* * *

Three customary 9 mm bullets, deformed, bloodied

* * *

 **I**

It is unusual to start a story with its ending, and it seems a little counterproductive. But those three little chunks of metal cause the event that Blair Waldorf-Bass will only ever refer to as "the end".

They are fired on a sidewalk on the 6th avenue and find their target as he gets out of his limo – the very same he used to drive in junior year, the leather of the seats has had a few fix-ups since his wife lost her virginity on them, but is just the same car.

The first bullet grazes his shoulder. Blood splatters, people scream, but it is a minor injury.

The second bullet hits him in the chest and misses his heart by several inches.

The third smashes his skull just off the temple. His elderly driver Arthur rushes to his side and tries to help, but Charles Bartholomew Bass is dead within moments.

The call reaches his wife in a meeting in Vienna.

 **II**

He turns up at the funeral though she can't recall having him informed about the date, and it looks like he put that long flight to good use. Jack Bass barges into the church less than a minute before the beginning of the ceremony, impeccably dressed as always and so unsteady on his feet she has half a mind of pushing past Serena to walk him to his place just like she did with Chuck at Bart's funeral -before the only surviving relative of her late husband breaks his nose by falling flat on his face in front of the coffin.

But, drunk though he is, he finds his way to an empty seat without her help.

She misses most of the speech anxiously waiting for the sound of him throwing up all over some guest's Armani suit, but all she hears is Nate berating him for being so disrespectful under his breath.

"'s not a Bass funeral without a drunk Bass attending," he answers, his voice slurred but thankfully rather quiet. "I wanted to send off my nephew in style. You'll have to forgive a poor old sinner like me, _Saint Archibald_. Drinking to his memory is the only way of paying respect that I am capable of."

Despite his heavy tongue, mockery is bleeding through every syllable and for the first time in weeks, Blair almost remembers what smiling feels like.

 _Chuck would have appreciated the gesture_ , she can't help but think, _probably more than everyone else's_.

 **III**

She can't even say she's surprised to find him in their loft when she returns – no, not _their_ loft, not anymore, she reminds herself angrily, _her_ loft now – all that surprises her is how little annoyance she feels at the sight of him on her couch, a glass of Chuck's scotch in hand. She's rather impressed he managed to pour something liquid into a glass this size in his current state.

"Come to take advantage of the grieving widow?" She means to sound haughty and disgusted, but her voice is only tired.

After a moment, he looks up at her, almost as if he was surprised to see her, then his eyes return to his glass.

"Sweetheart, at this level of intoxication," he says that word very slowly, exceedingly careful not to trip over the syllables and again, for a split second, she wants to smile, "I couldn't if I wanted to."

She considers throwing him out, or sitting down next to him, then decides she is too exhausted for either of that. "I assume you'll find the way out on your own," she mutters, shaking her head. "Don't you _dare_ retching over anything in my possession."

He gives a very undignified snort while she drags herself to bed.

The next morning he's gone and the only trace he's left behind is a folded note on the coffee table – going by the writing, he's written it just before he left. The neat handwriting baffles her for a moment, then she realises it all looks painfully familiar.

Looks like Chuck wasn't the only one who spent his childhood mimicking the mighty Bart Bass's handwriting – or maybe Jack just forged Bart's signature as often as Chuck did.

Suddenly her throat feels too tight to breathe and her knees give way. All the wonderful numbness that has filled her ever since it happened breaks away within seconds and the pain underneath it is raw and all-consuming.

All she sees is the man she married, the man for whom she's waited so long, the man for whom she's waited for what felt like forever. She'll never see him again.

She knows he'd tell her she's Blair Waldorf and she will get through this with grace and dignity and ease, but the truth is she has never really known how to be Blair Waldorf without Chuck Bass.

The note between her fingers slips to the floor, but she never notices.

* * *

printing paper, white, folded once; a telephone number and two lines written in black ballpoint pen

 _If there's something I can do, call this number._

 _Sorry for your loss._

* * *

 **I**

Her fingers don't shake when she dials the number, which surprises her; but then again, it is definitely no more surprising than the fact that _Jack_ is the one and only person she can imagine by her side for this. She also knows it's like four in the morning in Australia which must be the only time of day where she can be sure Jack is asleep, but she just needs this tiny little bit of payback.

It does take him no less than eleven beeps to pick up the phone.

"I need you," she says simply when she is met with expectant silence by ways of a greeting.

"Care to specify that need, honey?" She can almost hear that greasy smile of his in his voice. "Though I know for a fact you're a fling worth taking a long flight for-"

"Your jokes have not improved," she gives back flatly. "I need a partner in crime."

"I am a little old for your kind of crime, Blair."

"I meant the kind that leaves stains on the carpet that don't come off so easily."

For a moment, there's just silence, then - "I know I said _something I can do,_ but that sounds like the kind of thing that risks getting me into jail, love," he answers with a definitely amused ring to his voice. "We both know I am too pretty for that, and I don't feel like taking a leaf out of my dearly departed brother's book either. So what's in it for me?"

She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a slow, deliberate breath. "Help me get my revenge and you can name the prize."

Jack gives a hoarse chuckle and suddenly it hits her he's probably not sleeping alone – which doesn't make his reply any less predictably dirty. "You know my prize."

"And you shall have it. If you help me." Her voice isn't even wavering and she wonders if she should hate herself for it.

"Well," he answers softly and she hears the sheets ruffle. "In that case, get to work. I'm on my way."

"I'll send a car to the airport," she answers and hangs up, letting out a shuddering breath.

It really is lucky she is no stranger to deals with the devil.

 **II**

Over the cause of the following weeks she can't help but wonder why he is really doing this – nobody puts on a Machiavellian mask like a Bass, but she's a Bass herself now and nobody can see through that kind of act better than she can. And evil old Uncle Jack… for whatever reason he's doing this, it is not for fun and it's not even for sex.

There's no point in asking him, he'd only lie, so she doesn't.

He spends most of the first month jetting around God knows what places trying to dig up a clue while she puts every single New York contact she has to use. Jack bribes whoever has influence in the NYPD, Blair serves tea to Chuck's business associates. He blackmails his way to the case files and autopsy reports, she throws parties and pours drinks trying to get the right people to talk.

Sometimes he'd stay in New York for the night, but Blair never knows where. She just goes to bed at some point, locks the door behind herself and cries herself to sleep more often than not, and whether Jack sleeps on the couch or in the guest room or with the maid or at a suite at the Empire is all the same to her.

"No, listen to me," he says very calmly, one hand holding the phone, the other leafing through a stack of legal documents spread out on the table. Blair can't help thinking he's never looked more like Bart – never sounded more like him. "You can either tell me what you know or you can keep your mouth shut for whatever petty reason you think you've gotta do that. But if you do, just know that you brought whatever it is that comes next on yourself." There's a brief pause while the caller answers. Jack pulls out a photograph from amidst the pile of paper and goes on, his voice quiet and cold: "You've made business with my brother, you should know better than to refuse a Bass."

A victorious little smile tugs at his lips half a minute later and Blair knows he has, as ever, got what he wanted.

She called him, not Serena or Nate or Dan or even _Georgina,_ because unlike all of them – unlike her, really – Jack can tell the difference between a grand scheme and a petty feud, between blackmail and high school games, and because he's the only one ruthless enough to let her have what she wants: blood for blood.

She expected him to see it through, but that feverish gleam in her eyes that scares her every time she looks into the mirror starts to flare up in his eyes as well and makes her wonder if she didn't call him because she knew, deep down, that this is family business.

Maybe they are more alike than they know – this is her way of grieving for Chuck, who knows if it isn't his way, too?

 **III**

In the end, Chuck's murder turns out to be nothing more than a revenge mission of one desperate, deranged ex-convict, and Blair can't help but think that this is not the ending her fairy-tale deserved.

Jack hands her an address and her phone, 9-1-1 already entered, and all she has to do is make the call. His eyes are on her as she stares at the post-it, she can feel them, and she wants to cry and scream and end it, all at the same time.

She does none of it.

"I wanna talk to him," she says softly and puts her phone in her pocket.

For a moment, he doesn't react at all, then he grabs his jacket from a chair and reaches for his briefcase. "I'll come with you."

Everything is just as they suspected the moment Blair stumbled across the name – Chuck got him into prison for something that was not his fault, his wife divorced him and he never watched his kid growing up, so he decided Chuck shouldn't have a chance of a happy life, either – and Andrew Tyler is every bit as cornered and aggressive as she expected him to be.

Every word he says fuels the burning fury inside her and after a few sentences, all she wants is to scratch his eyes out, and maybe if it wasn't for Jack's firm grip on her wrist she would.

She's thought this would feel good, or that it would at least dull the pain, but it changes _nothing at all._ She has his confession all recorded on her phone, it's more than enough, but suddenly she realises no matter what she does, it won't end the pain.

" _Enough,_ " she says, cutting Tyler off, her face wet with hot, angry tears, "I'll call the police. Hope you like prison better than you did the last time – you won't be getting out any time soon."

"No." His voice is hardly audible and when she turns around his grip around her hand slackens. Jack is staring at Tyler with an expression on his face that sends shivers down Blair's spine.

She always thought "cold rage" was a ridiculous expression; to her rage has always felt like white-hot metal burning through her veins, yet there is no other term to describe what's in Jack's eyes.

"Prison's not what we agreed on." His voice is still faint, and he sounds almost as surprised about himself as she is feeling – didn't he offer to sell Tyler to the police himself half an hour ago?

"Chuck wasn't responsible for what happened to you, Tyler, it was my brother," he says, letting go of her and stepping closer. "You murdered an innocent. And, even worse, you murdered my only living relative. You see, I'm not much of a family man, but still…" He makes to grab his jacket and Tyler flinches back, but Jack has him cornered.

Blair shivers and pulls her jacket closer around herself, staring helplessly at the scene in front of her.

Whatever Jack says next is too quiet for her to hear, but Andrew Tyler goes white as a sheet when he hears it.

"Jack." Her voice sounds pathetic, like a scared little child, but that is exactly what she is – what has she done?

He doesn't react, just eyes the other man for what feels like an eternity, then pushes him away and rushes out of the door, dragging Blair along as he goes, and they're in the hotel lobby when she realises he left his briefcase in Tyler's room.

"Let's call the police, Jack," she mutters, throwing a look over her shoulder, but he's already getting in the car.

"No need," he replies, his voice still cold and hard and quiet, "he'll be his own judge."

Her breath hitches in her throat. "What did you do?"

"I suggested he accepted his responsibility before someone he cares about comes to harm because of his crimes, and kindly provided him with a means to that end."

"A means to that end?"

Even his smile is cold. "A 9 mm, and a written testimony awaiting his signature."

"You had this all planned," she whispers, and thinks she should be disgusted. Scared. Shocked.

"You said blood."

She just feels empty.

 **IV**

When he gets out of the car in front of the Palace, she follows him, acting like she was being remote-controlled. She doesn't know where else to go.

The suite he rented isn't Chuck's, but it might as well be.

Her heart breaks all over again while she clutches the scotch he pours her.

"Feel better?" he asks suddenly, and this time his voice is hoarse and almost vulnerable. She doesn't look up to see his face, doesn't think she could bear it.

She thinks on that for a while, or maybe she's just staring into empty space, it makes no matter. "No."

"Me neither."

He stands to take the empty glass from her, then somehow his hand strays and ends up on her neck instead, and she leans into his touch even though it feels like betraying everyone she loves, and herself.

The next moment, he's pushed her down on the couch and kisses her and she lets him, and then her hands are fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and his slip underneath the hem of her dress and she has no idea what they're doing and she doesn't want to know. All she senses is a confusing mixture of feverish desire and an overwhelming feeling of emptiness that makes her head spin and her fingers shake.

Like something very distant, she hears fabric tearing, but she doesn't care. In this moment, she's not the Blair that cares about the dress she's wearing or the fact it was one of her mother's last designs.

Maybe she should burn it anyway. It's like there's blood on it.

It ends up on the floor just like her Marc Jacobs and his Boss suit and all the rest, one crumpled heap of satin and cotton and silk and wool and lace.

Her nails scrape his skin until there's blood drying on the light blue polish, or maybe there is a sharp edge on her wedding ring.

His hands tangle in her hair, touch every last inch of her skin and as much as she's pretended not to know that over the years - Jack may not be the one she wants, but he knows how to push her buttons right all the same. The guilt, the numbness, the unbearable weight of her grief fade just a little with every second and then for just a tiny moment, she feels so _free_ it makes her scream like she hasn't in months, _years_ … but the pain and the shame have her back in their grip before she knows it.

"Pleasure making business with you," she murmurs breathlessly, her voice not as acid as she meant for it to be, and Jack hears that, too.

"No need to pretend, Blair, you needed this as much as I did."

She can't deny that, and she feels too exhausted to try. Instead, she pulls him back down and kisses him – there's no love in it, but it's not like either of them needs there to be.

She loses all track of time in their desperate search for solace, but when she finally falls asleep, she can't say if either of them has found any.

 **V**

She can't say she's surprised to find him gone the next morning, but on the breakfast tray the room service brings her before she even has the time to move towards the telephone there's another note.

* * *

breakfast tray complete with cappuccino, grapes, two croissants, strawberry and cherry jam, butter; served on white china with the Palace logo;  
two lines written in black ballpoint pen on white printing paper also bearing the logo

 _I wasn't going to pass up on the same offer twice, don't mistake me for my gentlemanly nephew._

 _It's done, Blair, time to move on._

* * *

She gets into the shower and watches the brownish stains on her nails turn the water red for the fraction of a second, so briefly she might have just imagined it, and wonders if he will take his own advice.

She tries not to ask herself if she will ever find the strength to move on, and given what she's witnessed the last evening, somehow she doubts Jack will.

* * *

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